“Yon short gentleman?” enquired Jean, as soon as her awkward courtesies to our party were over. “Nay, yon’s nane o’ Maister Lauson. Maister Lauson’s a taw weel lookt gentleman, no’ the least like yon gentleman.” “Tall or short I am Mr. Lauson,” said Lauson very sulkily, for the Messrs Morven had laughed out, and the Misses Morven were tittering evidently at his expense. Lord Arandale desired there might be no more noise, assuring Mrs. M’Kinley that the gentleman, whose identity she seemed so unwilling to admit, not only was, beyond a doubt, Mr. Lauson, but that he was at the Craigs that day by his, the Earl’s, particular desire, to give him the meeting for the arrangement of some business respecting serious repairs, which he understood the park walls required. “Now, madam,” said Lauson, “you’ll not dispute my Lord’s word, I hope.” “Yeer no going to tell me,” exclaimed Mrs. M’Kinley, looking wilder than ever, “that yon was the deevil at cam here and cawd himsel Maister Lauson, and brought my ain keys we him, and my ain lables on them, and took aw the things awa we him!” “As to its being the devil,” replied Lauson, “I shall not dispute that; but it certainly was not Mr. Lauson.” “What can she mean?” said the Earl. “And did ye send naybody then?” eagerly demanded the poor woman. On being fully assured that no person whatever had been sent to the Craigs, or authorized in any way to demand of her any thing of which she had the charge, “Then,” she cried, first clasping her hands for a moment, then flinging her arms to their utmost extent asunder, “aw is gane—gane—rifled—robbed—lost—ther’s naything left in aw the hoose!” An explanation was called for. Mrs. M’Kinley flung herself on her knees in the midst of the hall, and, calling on heaven and Jean to witness the truth of all she should say, after much that was too incoherent to relate, gave the following account, though more frequently interrupted by her hearers than it is necessary to notice. “It was a fine moonlight night aboot a month syne, and I was sitting at the window o’ the hooskeeper’s room, (it looks front, ye ken,) and I catched a glympse o’ some-ot like tle a carriage coming roond the hill. I could na credit my ain een, so I looked again, and it turned in among the trees. Weel, said I to Jean, wha can be coming tle this lone place at this time o’ night? It’s a while yet till the young mistress be at age; and I’m no expecting that ony o’ the femely will com’ doon afoor then, if they com’ then it sel. Ye mind that, Jean?” “Weel enough,” said Jean. “The carriage,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “for it was a carriage sure enough, com’ oot o’ the wood again, and sweeped along the lawn, and up it com’ to the door, and ain o’ the sarving men, (for there were twa,) jumped doon and made sick a thundering rap as gar’d the hale hoose resound; the t’other man jumped doon, and opened the carriage door——”